The After Math of Crime and Consequences
by Ex's and Oh's
Summary: After the death of his brother, Bobby decides he needs help dealing with Jacks death. He goes to a psychiatrist, after having serve panic attacks & sleeping problems. Based loosely on Billy and Maddie scenes from The Departed. May or may not be a romance.
1. Chapter 1

The After Math of Crime and Consequences

_After the events in Four Brothers, Bobby decides he needs help dealing with Jacks death. He goes to see a psychiatrist, after developing trouble sleeping, and serve panic attacks. I've decided that his reason for having the attacks is that Jack was a sort of confidant for Bobby, and without Jack, Bobby has no outlet for stress, thus his current condition devolved. I based this story loosely on the scene between the characters Billy Costigan and Madolyn in The Departed. I hope you enjoy, this is my first jump back into writing in a couple years, so be gentle!_

"My father was a state police detective." I began.

"What?" He looked taken a back.

"I've learned, over the years that you can't expect someone who doesn't to disclose information to just hand it over without giving a little information yourself." I told him evenly. "My father was a state police detective, and not a good one." I let out a small laugh, "He was good at drinking, and yelling." I said in a very matter of fact voice.

"I didn't have a father." He offered

"You didn't come here to lie," I accused. "You didn't come here to talk about your father's existence, or lack thereof either." I said flatly.

He let out a loud sigh, the only sign he ever gave me that coming into my office made him nervous. Aside from the fact that the first two visits he didn't say more than six words collectively. _Hi. I'm Bobby Mercer_, followed by a grand silence, and then finally after the hour ended he said _Next week?_

Honestly, if he did the same thing this week I was going to suggest he see another councilor. Amazingly, though, he said more this week than he had in the past two. I scribbled down _Holy Christ_, as discreetly as I could; I noticed that his eyes tried to bore a hole through my paper every time I wrote something down in his file.

"I didn't come here to talk about my father, who was also good at drinking and yelling." He looked to me to see if I wanted more information, and I simply nodded to him as encouragement. "I moved into foster care, I got adopted. I went through tough shit, but my Ma, she was a good lady."

"I'm sure she was. I can tell you loved her very much." He looked at me and rose an eyebrow "When you said my Ma was a good lady, you smiled. Since you've been in my office, you've smiled exactly three times, the first was when you introduced yourself and you curved your lips and didn't meet my eyes suggesting that you weren't happy to be here. The second was at the end of the last meeting when I said you needed to get you're shit together before you came back this week, you tried to smile like you appreciated my joke but honestly I just thought you would punch me because you curled your lip but formed a fist as you left." I paused to see if he was paying attention to me. "This smile though, you rolled your lips up, not curved them and you formed wrinkles around eyes. That's an actual smile, the muscles in your cheeks relax, and pull the muscles around your eyes at the same time to create wrinkles."

He looked at me like I had five heads "What the hell? How the fuck do you know that?" He asked incredulously.

"I studied psychology for years, and in that you also learn body language. You can tell by voice inflection, as well as body movement when someone is lying." I closed his file "Would you like to know how I knew you lied about not having a father?"

He kept perfectly still, and I took this as a sign to continue "You made eye contact with me." He looked up, confused, "When people lie, they often force themselves to make eye contact. When you don't believe something to be honest, you want others to believe it, so you look them in the eye. The only problem with trying that trick on a psychiatrist is that I can see the pupil of your eye enlarge signifying that you don't believe what you're saying."

"Christ," He mumbled, and ran his hand through his slicked back hair.

"Don't worry, though. Most people on the street wouldn't notice anything like that… and, I can stop reading you if you'd like." I offered.

"What?"

"I have to look for those signs; I don't just pick them up. It's not a parlor trick, and honestly my eyes hurt less when I don't have to concentrate so hard to see the pupils of your eyes."

"No," He told me softly. "No, it's better if you call me on my shit, right? I mean, I'm supposed to tell the truth here, if nowhere else, right?" He asked.

"Right, yes." I insisted, nodding.

We sat silently for a couple seconds, and I wondered briefly if that was the only break through we would have today.

"Do you lie?" He asked very suddenly.

"Honesty…. honesty is not synonymous with the truth." I said slowly. "I mean some things you need to keep on an even playing field."

"Even playing field?" He mimicked questioningly.

"Yes, sometime the truth is harsher than a lie. Sometimes a lie is harsher than the truth, you have to sort through the situation and assess which option is best."

"So you lie?" He asked again.

"Yes. Sometimes I lie." I paused for a moment, "but not here. I took an oath to be honest with my patients, and I take that seriously." I say. Bobby doesn't say anything for a few beats, and I guess now is as good a time as any to bring it up, "Bobby." I say, and make sure he looks up at me. "Why did you come here?" I ask.

He doesn't answer, for a moment "You want the truth?" He asks, and I nod. "I want valium," he answers.

"I, what?" I asked sitting up straighter. "You know, if you lied you have a better chance of getting what you wanted."

"I'm having fucking panic attacks," He leans forward and rests his arms in his legs, leering at me. "Last night I thought I was dying. I thought I was having a heart attack. I haven't slept in… weeks. I threw up in a trash can on the way up here!" He suddenly explodes.

"Is that the truth?" I ask, sitting back in a more relaxed position.

"Yes, it's the truth. I thought I was supposed to tell the truth here? I thought you _knew_ if I was telling the truth!" He asked outraged at my distrust.

I stand up, and walk over to my desk, carting his file in tow. I open my top drawer, and shift through it for a second, and grab a sample of five pills, and toss them at Bobby, who catches them in one hand.

"Five pills, five fucking pills?" He asks standing up.

"Yeah, five pills. You're coming back in two days. The three extra are a sign of good faith. Good deal?" I ask him.

He sits back down. "Why'd you stop reading me, or whatever?"

"Another sign of good faith; I trust you, you trust me." I pause, and look at my book. "I have an opening on Friday morning at 11:35. Does that work for you?"

Bobby grabs his face and wipes no existing dirt of his face and nods "Yeah, yeah. That's fine."

"Alright, good. Look, we're out of time for today." I walk back towards him, with a water bottle in hand from the bottom of my desk. "Take this, and pop one of those before you get back on the train, okay?" He looks at me strangely "You're metro card is sticking out of your pocket, I'm observant, not physic."

"Right, right," He gives me another one of those fake smiles. "Friday," he says finally getting up, cracking the seal on the water bottle as he does.

"And Bobby, the next time you come in my building with a cigarette and stamp it out on my nice, new tile floor I'm not going to be so big on good faith, okay?"

"What?"

"So, maybe I am little psychic."

He turns away from me, and shuts the door to my office. I remain standing in the middle of the room for maybe thirty seconds, and then return to my desk. I sighed, and glance at the clock- 6:35. "Why is the last patient of the day always the hardest?"


	2. Chapter 2

The After Math of Crime and Consequences

Friday morning came, so did Friday afternoon, and finally so did Friday night. I attempted to lie to myself, and say some many things could have gone wrong in Robert Mercer's life that would compel him to skip off on our meeting. I knew the truth though, I knew that there was no traumatic life event had occurred, nor was there any sort of family emergency that cause Bobby to first be late, and then quickly become a no show.

"_Do you lie?" He asked very suddenly._

"_Honesty…. h__onesty is not synonymous with the truth." _

Whatever brought Bobby here, whatever it was that shook him up for much was keeping him away from this office. He was being truthful in his mind about something but his heart was telling him that even if it was the truth it wasn't genuine.

I always went that extra mile for my patients. I'd like to think that is what made me so good at my job, but it also could just be that I could tell when people were dishonest, or trying to keep something from me. Make of it what you will, because either way I do whatever is necessary for my patients. I take calls at home, I make house visits, I will my make a visit for almost anytime or day or night even if it means skipping a party, or showing up to a dinner event late or not at all, I'll cancel dates or leave in the middle if absolutely necessary.

Certainly, it puts a damper on my personal life but, if we're being truthful, I don't have much of a personal life with or without my patients and without my patients where would I be? Unemployed and back East. No, thank you.

I walked to the edge of the room, large packed tote in my hand and the phone rang. I put my tote down, sighed softly and walked by to my phone. "Hello?" I answered softly, it was a line very few clients were given, and I felt no need to answer professionally.

"It's Bobby Mercer," he told me gruffly.

"How did you even get this number?" I asked pointedly, I sure didn't give it to him and this line was unlisted.

"Don't worry about it," he laughed hollowly.

"Okay, since we're done with how you got an unlisted number that wasn't given to you, how about we discuss why you missed today's meeting?"

I could hear him sigh "You wanna get a cup of coffee?" He asked using the same hallow voice.

"I don't know, Bobby. I seem to be the only one giving here, and you're the one who found me. I can't help you if you won't let me, you know."

There was silence, and I was afraid for a moment that I pushed him too far, "Do you want to get a cup of coffee?" He repeated.

* * *

I assured myself several times that I was, in fact, making the wrong choice. However, sometimes in life you had to let yourself make the wrong choice so one day you can appreciate the right one.

I'm also aware that's pretty much bullshit, but what can I say? I have a PhD in Psychiatry; half of my work is bullshitting people off the ledge.

"Why did you come here?" He asked me abruptly.

"My job isn't to fix people; it's to stop people from jumping off the ledge. I can read you, Bobby but I don't know you. I don't know where you are on that ledge, and I don't know if you're ready to jump." I paused, and when he didn't look at me I asked "Why did you ask me here?"

Bobby reached into his pocket, and pulled out a very crumpled and short article and tossed it the table. I watched it for a moment to see if he wanted to take any further action with it, but he just left it alone and watched me watch his hands for any sign of movement.

I slowly picked up the article, unfolded it and looked back at Bobby before looking down.

_Jack Mercer, 23._

I looked back up at Bobby, deciding that he wasn't old enough to be this man's father I looked back down to the obituary.

_Jack Mercer tragically lost his life this Friday. Jack is survived by three bothers Robert, Jeremiah, and Angel Mercer all of whom were adopted by Evelyn Mercer who was predeceased her son by two weeks. There will be a private service for friends and family on Monday, January 11__th__, 2004._

I put the paper back on the table, and Bobby picked it up, folded it into quarters and placed it back in his jacket pocket.

I wanted to say _I apologize, I'm so sorry for your loss_ but Bobby wasn't the type of person who responded well to sympathy, I could already tell that about him.

So instead I opted for, "He was you're brother?" I asked softly.

"Yeah, his foster dad was beatin' on him, and I brought him home to my Ma, told him I'd protect him."

"I'm sure you were a very good brother to him, Bobby."

"He trusted me."

"I'm sure you gave him every reason to trust you." I smiled, at him trying to give him an encouraging smile.

Bobby didn't say anything for a few beats, and just stared past my head. "You told me that honesty wasn't…"

"Synonymous with the truth, yes" I filled in for him, slightly unaware with where he was heading with this.

"Jack was killed because I can't do anything subtlety." He said avoiding eye contact and running his index finger around his coffee cup.

"I don't understand what that means." I said very honestly.

"My mother was murdered." He said as if that should clear up any questions I had, when I remained still and didn't comment he felt the need to continue. "My brothers and I found her killer."

"So you have more than one brother?"

"I had three."

"And then Jack passed away?" he nodded, "Jack was, I'm sorry to be so blunt, but he was killed, shot?"

"Yes," Bobby said but I could tell by his shoulders suddenly tensing up, and the way he held his hands so still that there was something he wasn't telling me.

"Forgive me Bobby, but you I can't help you if you don't tell me the whole truth here. Jack was shot, I get that, but who shot him?"

"Where are you from?" Bobby asked suddenly, completely changing the subject.

"I'm from Southern Connecticut, New Haven, actually." I replied taking the lid off my cup mentally making a point to bring our conversation back to Jack, "I lived there most of my life, right near the ocean." I smiled thinking back to my childhood home, and taking a sip of my strong black coffee.

"Were you one of those prep school rich kids?" He asked in a teasing but serious tone.

"No, I went to public schools in New Haven. I ran through a few different elementary schools and a magnet high school."

"So you're a sort of single, doctor from Connecticut in Detroit… what? Helping the helpless?"

"No, people who come to me aren't helpless." I say "The people who come to see me aren't lost, aren't helpless and they aren't head cases. The people who see me are… they're brave." I tell him.

"So you're telling me that the people who come to your office and cry their eyes out are the brave ones? Not the ones who face their demons in their own time?" Bobby fiddles with his coffee stirrer, not looking at me.

"Asking for help is the hardest thing to do, don't you think?" I ask him.

"Eh,"

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" I ask just as suddenly as he asked where I was from.

"What makes me uncomfortable?"

"Crying in my office, other people crying or, hell, you crying?" I clarify for him.

"Don't do that," he said taking a gulp of his coffee.

"Do what?" I ask him confused.

"That thing you do, when you ask about my feelings." He insists.

"Bobby, that's my job." He ignored me for a couple beats and then locked eyes with me.

"What would you say if your 'sort of boyfriend' saw you, sitting here with me?" He asked very calmly, never breaking eye contact.

"I'd lie." He looked slightly surprised by my answer, "We talked about that, keeping things on an even playing field." I sighed, and continued he obviously didn't understand that I wasn't stupid. "This isn't an emergency meeting. You won't answer my questions, you're asking me about my childhood. We're in a coffee house, and you paid for my over priced cup of black coffee. I'm not stupid, Bobby, I have three PhD's."

"Then why did you show up?" He asked, keeping his cup close to his mouth as if he was hoping I would miss his question.

I remained quiet for a moment, not sure myself why I had showed up. Finally, I looked up at him and answered as honestly as I could; "I have no idea," I said softly, Bobby removed his hands from his coffee cup and sat up straight in his chair.

"I'm done trying to fix people, Bobby." He raised an eyebrow at that comment, "I haven't tried to fix anyone since my sophomore year of my undergrad studies. I don't fix people; I sit in my office and listen when they talk. If you want to talk, fine- great. If you don't than you're just paying seventy dollars an hour, with insurance mind you, to sit in a marginally comfortable leather chair and stare at the wall."

Bobby remained silent, and kept his hand resting on his pocket where he put Jacks obituary. I didn't say anything further, I just sat calmly memorizing Bobby's worn, but handsome face finishing my over priced black coffee.


	3. Chapter 3

The After Math of Crime and Consequences

Thank you to Maxiekat, my first and only reviewer of this story thus far : ) I hope you continue to read!

* * *

I detest Saturdays. I often find myself wondering why in the world I would hate a day where I had no responsibilities, aside from the occasional emergency or date or anything pressing that happened to fall on a Saturday. Then faithfully, every time I allowed myself to contemplate I'd remember.

_Grace, honey, it's your mother. Pick up, I know you're there. It's Saturday, you're always home! Oh well, I guess there must have been an emergency at the office… anyway! I just called to tell you, your sister, oh she must be too busy to call you, but your sister and Roger are engaged! Isn't that wonderful it happened only last night. Abby's only twenty eight and already on her way to building her own life! Oh, honey, not that you don't have your like built, it's just… you're alone! Don't you ever get lonely up in the apartment? I bet if you moved home you could get a job at Yale and meet a nice Doctor, oh honey. That would be lovely, you would just love being back home and- darling, what _is_ that beeping? Is your machine going to cut me-?_

There were times when I was dirt broke, hungry, and freezing to death, and I'd ask myself, _why the hell am I still living here?_ I almost packed my bag a hundred times before my Practice got on its feet… and then _she'd_ call, and I'd remember.

Abby was my half sister, and truth be told we didn't along too well. I was fourteen when my mother and Abby's father married. I was from the Cove, a small section of New Haven. It was nice, close to the beach nowhere near the rich side of town, per say. Sure, Mansions were scattered but mostly it was revamped summer cottages turned to year round homes. I lived there almost my whole life, from when I was about five, up until we moved into my Step father's house. Richard, a name I always thought fit the older man, lived on the New Haven and Hamden border on St. Ronan Street, which is in Whitneyville all the way across town from where I was from.

I went to Public School, Woodward Grade School, Nathan Hale Elementary, Bishop Wood, Benjamin Jepson, and even for half a year Fair Haven Middle School. Eight grades, and six school, I couldn't honestly tell you why I moved through all these school but I did. I made a lot of friends that way; perhaps, I've come to realize, friends I would later be better off without.

Abby went to private school, at first she went to The Foote School but then, in eighth grade she transferred to Hopkins because they prepared you hardcore for Ivy League.

I'm not sure what sparked mine and Abby's hatred for each other; I think it was always there. I was the under privileged girl from The Cove destined to graduate from Cross High School and attend Southern Connecticut State University. Abby embodied the term privileged, she went to a school that literally cost fifteen thousand dollars to attend, she wore clothes from J. Crew and Express and she lived in a house, if you could call it that, where her closet was so large she kept a spare bed in it.

Of course, I didn't attend Cross High School; I opted to attend The Sound High School. I went against the advice of almost every person I spoke to because Sound School, at the time, was geared towards teenagers who need to be disciplined, teenage delinquents, trouble makers. In the end, however, it was the best choice I've made in my whole life. I met people from surrounding towns who I never would have met. I learned to Sail and Row (both crew and on dories) I learned to use power tools and how to properly take care of fish. Most importantly though, I learned who I was. A task that may have been unreachable if I had taken Richard up on his offer to pay for any private school I got into and wanted to attend. Instead he and I came to an agreement, I would go to public school and when I turned sixteen, providing I kept up my grades and acted properly (according to his rules), he would buy me a car and pay for the gas.

My real father died when I was seven. I never liked him much; he was too rough with me. Oh, he never hit me, but I was a rather delicate child and I would bruise if you grabbed my arm the wrong way, let alone add pressure to it. Richard became the father I always wanted. I'm honestly sad I don't get to see him every day anymore, but he understands that my Mother and I just don't see eye to eye. I was always a calm, observant child whereas she is hung strung, high maintenance and all around too much for me to deal with.

Richard taught me how to drive a car and a boat, he taught me math when I didn't understand it, he hired a tutor for my SATS, and he was there when I had a broken heart from my first real love.

My mother preferred to be around Abby, who is so much like here sometimes I wonder if perhaps Abby is related to my mother some other way than marriage. They would shop, or watch trashy soap operas, most of the time they were so cliché that I would spend the night hauled up in Richard's study, with or without him and study or write or brood.

Over the years I realized that my mother didn't actually prefer Abby's company over mine, but it was rather she was my mother she and I would always be tied together in some way, but Abby was a project and my mother loved a project be it a PTA assigned project or a be friend your step daughter project my mother would immerse herself in it. She never realized that by trying so hard to be Abby's mother she pushed herself away from me. Not that I minded because my Sophomore year, when I had broken up with my first boyfriend, the only boy to this day I've ever been in love with, Richard bought me a dog.

I named him Sammy, he was, and still is, as I still have him, a giant America mastiff. Richard never realized he would be so big, I on the other hand knew the second I held him as a puppy Sammy would hit at least two hundred pounds. When he stopped growing at age three he weighed in at two hundred and three pounds, he's neither gained nor lost weigh since. He's a good dog, a faithful dog. He's been through every training class I could find because Richard wanted to make sure I could handle a dog of his size. Sammy listens to every command he is giving, it's almost as if he's human. I'm convinced he's the dog equivalent of a genius. Both my mother and Abby hated Sammy because of his size, but they couldn't deny unbelievable ability to listen to direction, his calmness and his general ease of training. They never found a reason to complain of him, and never found grounds to demand he be sold, or given away.

I was shaken out of my thoughts when the phone rang again, without thinking, or looking at the caller id I picked up the phone, "Hello?"

"Grace? It's Abby."

"Oh, Abby!" I force myself to sound excited "I just listened to Mom's message, Congratulations! I'm so happy for you and Roger!" I exclaim, glad she can't see my grimace over the phone.

"Thanks so much, Grace. I would have called you earlier, but I just got so overwhelmed and Mom called before I even had the chance to tell anyone besides her and daddy." She said rushed, she was probably glad I couldn't see her frown; I could however hear it in her voice. Sometimes she forgets that I can hear disappoint, and boredom unlike other people.

"Don't even worry about it. I'm just glad you called!" We both laughed an uncomfortable laugh.

"Listen,"

"Grace," We began at the same time. "Let me guess, you have an appointment?"

"Let _me_ guess, mom demands you start planning the engagement party right this instant?"

"Exactly!" We exclaimed just happy to have this call behind us. Although we did hate each other, we were never disrespectful or rude. Our parents worked very hard to get us to act like sisters, and we both had enough sense to try and please them.

"How about I call you when I figure out all the dates of everything, of course you might have to get your dress when you're here for the engagement party because Roger and I want a short, six month engagement… yes," she paused. "I'll call you back tomorrow, or Monday, Grace."

"I'm looking forward to it, bye."

"Bye," I waited until I heard the click on her end and hung up.

Fantastic. Now I get to listen to my mother's family complain on how I put my career before a family and allowed my younger sister to marry before I even found a suitable man, oh god, I'm so looking forward to that almost as much as I look forward to my mother commenting on how my physical appearance looks in a brides mate dress. I was thin; I just had curves which for some reason appalled my mother who was a stick figure with boobs. I had more of a slim hour glass shape, which I love and work hard to keep up. Maybe I can buy ear plugs or something.

* * *

The worst part about pictures is that they never change. The smiling faces are stopped in time, just waiting to mock your current appearance. You can say at the time of taking a photo you just want to preserve a memory, but ten years down the road that picture is just another reminder of the past you want to leave behind.

Bobby Mercer wasn't one to dwell. He either got what he wanted, or didn't get it or moved on. He wasn't a complicated man by any means. He didn't drink, or meet women as neither activity ever lead him to smart decision. He moved around a lot over the years spending a year in each location and moving on as soon as his lease or rent ended. Staying grounded in one place meant roots, and if there was one thing in life Bobby hated it was letting down roots. He let roots down in one place and one place alone; Detroit, where his Mama lived, where he was raised. It was the only placed he ever allowed himself to be tied to, and it was one of the places he vowed he wouldn't return to.

Yet, there he was in Detroit, looking at old photo's of, in his opinion, better times. It was now one year after his mother's death, on the one year anniversary of his brother's murder. Every bone in his body was screaming at him to move on, to leave- pick up and start over. He needed a new town, new faces, new everything. Something inside him stopped though, he stayed put right in his Mama's house. He and his brother's picked it up, and put it back together after the shooting and Bobby moved in alone and appeared to settle down.

The attacks started almost six months ago, Bobby was in Jack's old room finally getting around to fixing the last window. He knelt down to move Jack's old guitar when it happened. His stomach dropped, and lurched upward almost as his he was going to throw up, so he sat down and realized he was shaking. His heart started to pound out of his chest and sweat poured down his brow. Bobby was convinced he was having a heart attack. He was convinced he was going to die, he said a quick Hail Mary, and an Our Father and grasped the rosary beads hanging around his neck. Then very suddenly, every symptom stopped. Bobby didn't move for almost ten minutes afraid that any movement would spark the symptoms and bring back… whatever it was.

A few days passed, and nothing ever remotely like the first happened and Bobby almost thought he was in the clear until he was in a dinner, grabbing lunch when a young boy in a leather jacket sat next to him. This time, the symptoms built slower and Bobby had time to toss a twenty on the counter and walk out of the dinner before the symptoms hit him like a rock in the stomach, literally. He barely even had time to get a trash can near his car before he puked up his stomach until there was nothing left.

He didn't tell anyone about his problem, and he really had no idea what was happening to him. If he took a second and thought about everything rationally he would have realized much earlier that he was having panic attacks. However, Bobby was so busy ignoring his problem that he couldn't really see it. Suddenly the attacks became more frequent, harsher and lasted longer. They ran his life, and then just as suddenly as they came they stopped.

For about a month Bobby lived his life as a free man, he came and went as he please without the fear of an attack coming over him. He saw his brothers, and his nieces and he even had a nice word to say to Sophie, well, it was moderately nice word.

Then when he was cooking in the kitchen he saw a small blue, what looked like a tiny marble on the floor. When he bent down to pick it up he felt his heart doing that rapid beat again and his last coherent thought was _whose fucking tongue ring is on my floor_?

Finally, Bobby admitted to himself that he needed help. Actually Jerry's wife told him he needed help. She noticed his absence and yelled at him until he revealed he was having some sort of attack every once in a while.

"_Bobby! How could you be so stupid? You know that's not normal right?"_

"_I'm handling it, alright, Camille?" He shouted back, after confiding into his brother's wife._

"_Oh, yes, you stay in your house all the time, you never go out with Jerry or Angel anymore and I haven't seen you in three weeks. What a great method of dealing, Bobby."_

"_What do you suggest then? Huh?" He asked agitated._

"_I have a friend; I went to college with her. She's a psychiatrist, she can help you. You want her card?"_

"_Do I have a choice?"_

"_Not really" She said cheerily, stuffing the card in his hand_

That brought his thoughts back to earlier today, at the Coffee house, with Grace. He asked her stuff he wouldn't care to know about anyone else, hell, he told her stuff he wouldn't even hit at to another human being. He put the photos down, and grabbed one of the sample Valiums and pops it in his mouth, swallowing it dry. It was hard to get down the first time, but after the third pill it would go easier. He mentally laughed when he thought of how Grace had given him a water bottle. It was nice of her, hell, everything about her was nice. Finally he put his head in his hands, put his panic attacks asides, and he was still fucked. Bobby hadn't started to fall for a girl in the last ten years and then, suddenly he starts to develop some kind of feelings about the only women on the planet who was off limits to him. Yeah, He was fucked.

* * *

**Authors Note:**

I like this chapter, but I had to put Bobby's part in a Second Person POV because I haven't really gotten inside his head like I have my character, although, that's obvious because I created her mind. However, that's either here nor there. I hope to be able to put a chapter from Bobby's POV in the future; perhaps some of you could make suggestions, if you're reading this… anyone?

Please review! I dunno if anyone noticed, but I was inspired to write an ever so slightly longer chapter because I was influenced by my lone review… more reviews = longer chapters… I think so!


	4. Chapter 4

_Just, a note… This chapter is more about Grace than anything- some things about Bobby are in the first part of the chapter but after the line break it's from Grace's POV. Basically, I'm setting up for Abby's wedding and something's about Grace had to be explained. Um, I use the word _fuck _a lot in this chapter. I hope it doesn't offend anyone, but it's a part of my background as well as Grace's and as a warning future chapters deal with Grace's friends and family who will also use _fuck _a bit, the reasoning behind that is also in this chapter (part of the set up I was talking about). Anyway, I hope you like this chapter, and I'm sorry for long break!_

The After Math of Crime and Consequences

He decided that his reaction to Grace Coppola was completely normal; any healthy, normal man would have the same reaction to her curves. He liked the fact that she had curves. Clearly Grace didn't starve herself to fit what America stereo typed as 'normal'. Yes, he thought, any healthy man would react to the gorgeous female the same way he did. The only problem was that he hadn't been healthy that way in so long. That part of him got lost in his travels and never really returned.

Bobby didn't believe in relationships, not love at first sight, not love, not even lust really. It was surprising to him that he was attracted to in the first place; her voice over the phone didn't give away the fact that Grace would be so attractive. Though, honestly, he didn't expect to be attracted to her whether her voice was pleasing or not.

He couldn't decide why he kept returning to her office over the past few weeks, there could have been a number of reasons among them, of course, were Grace's obvious good looks and perhaps it was because the attacks became less severe, perhaps it was even because he found a friend in Grace.

She wasn't a conventional friend, not really, but if he asked her a direct question she would answer it and she expected the same of him. Grace wasn't truly what he expected, she never asked about his feelings head on, rather she beat around the bush until he inadvertently told her what she wanted to know. Each time he made an omission of what he felt, or how he felt about something Grace gave him this smile, it light up her whole face and he couldn't help but return that smile proud that he was the one who put it on her face.

"We'll have to change our meeting for next week." Grace said grabbing her appointment book, "My sister is having her engagement party in Connecticut, so I'll leave Thursday morning before our usual meeting." She opened the book and looked up at Bobby. "How does… Wednesday night sound?"

"No, Sophie's giving Angel some kind of birthday party or some shit." Bobby said gruffly.

"Wednesday morning?" Grace asked "I have an opening at… 10:40, I know it's early for _you_ but, that's the only other Wednesday I have."

"Yeah, sure. I'll just catch up on my beauty sleep on Thursday, then." Bobby told her with a sarcastic smile playing at his lips.

Bobby wasn't a particularly proud man, proud in the sense of being satisfied with ones self, nor was he satisfied with the world around him. What made him proud was in a world that tossed him lemons, and death and panic he could make _her_ smile and laugh.

Grace allowed a small chuckle to pass her lips, "I bet Cam is happy that you're spending more time with your family again." She said writing down his new appointment on a card and handing it to him.

"She's smiling," He says, giving her a small not so true smile and exists the office.

* * *

_Grace_

Going home means so many different things to me. Mostly dread and anger. When I go home, I pull to my mother, and stepfather's world. I don't go back to my old neighborhood. Most of the people I loved, and respected there are dead. I grew up on the rough side of town, and place that you wouldn't want to walk around after dark. If you met me, and someone of the people I called friends ten, or fifteen years ago, you would probably get the wrong idea of me. I'm from New England, right near the ocean. It's beautiful, like you see on postcards or in magazines. It's also snooty, not the scenery but the people, comparable to the attitude of prep school jerks you read about. Not all of New England is like that, of course, as long as you know where to look, and I did. Still do.

I grew up with men; men I grew to call my Uncles, my stepfather Richard and my Grandfather and their respective friends, and later my own friends. Even though I was much younger than most, they were always very frank with me. Used crude language, hand gestures, and taught me the man's man credo. Which wasn't a problem with me, because I came to appreciate it. I got the best of both worlds, I was able to hang around in the garage, which around my neighborhood is a term used loosely to describe anywhere you find a group of males hanging around, but I also could spend time in the kitchen with my mother, grandmother, aunts and their respective friends. The kitchen, again, being a loose term for anywhere you could find a group of females hanging out.

I picked up things like how to change the piston rings in a lawn mower engine; I learned what a piston was and why it needed rings. I learned how to make a meat sauce, a Marana sauce, and lasagna. In the same day I had learned to make homemade pastries, I learned how to change engine oil. I grew up unconventionally, I was the first niece, granddaughter and daughter to a large family and I never had to vie for any attention- even to this day, although I am no longer the only, I will always be the first.

Learning things from the garage taught me a few things the kitchen never could. I can handle myself verbally, and physically. No one can push me around, and you may not even notice it unless it's pointed out because the kitchen taught me something things as well; kindness. I can insult you and compliment you in the same sentence, or I can drop you down a notch when you think you're above me. I often wonder if it's simply because the only affinity I have is that of words, or if it really was just because I grew up on both sides of the track. I suppose I'll never really know which is which because I can never go back, and I don't ever see myself changing.

However, what I learned and what I learned helped me to become isn't what I noticed that makes me feel at home, and it isn't what's important to me at the end of the day.

Language. It's what I noticed, and it's what has always been important to me. Aside from the fact that my Italian-American family would insert random Italian words, phrases and sentences, I noticed one word in particular. Fuck. "Well, where I'm from… fuck is like a bridge for conversation like, 'and fucking… oh yeah, that's what I was going to say' using it has become an art form" An actor once said about growing up in the Southey Projects of Boston, which admittedly, is not the part of New England I am from but, from growing up here I say with a little confidence that the sentiment rings true in almost all of New England.

Fuck, defined in a multitude of ways, ranging from intercourse, an offensive term for something of no value, a way to express exasperation, fear, surprise, or to add emphasis, can be used in a variety of ways, by a numerous amounts of people at any point in the day or conversation. Fuck, fucker, fucking, fuckity, motherfucker, fuck-face, fuck-tard, abso-fucking-luetly, fuck-no, fuck-yes, the list drones on. It could be used as a noun, pronoun, adjective, verb; New Englanders have brought the word to a whole new, versatile and impressive level.

One could describe a nights worth of event: "I was fucking down at the club with Brian, having a few drinks, when this fucking asshole comes up and starts running his mouth. So I'm sitting there like, this motherfucker cannot be serious. What could I do? I got the fuck up and punched him right where the fucker deserved it."

Another common use is a bridge when one forgets what they were about to say: "And fucking… Mary doesn't know what to."

And they ever popular: "Are you guys fucking?" "Have you fucked her?"

Let's not forget: "Don't fuck with me," "Are you fucking with me?" "I can't fucking believe it," "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

The most common use however is the insult, whether it be used with a joking context, or as an insult: "You stupid fuck." "Go fuck yourself." "Fuck you, motherfucker." "Shut the fuck up."

New Englanders are many things, most of which I don't particularly care about but, I will indulge in the knowledge that we are gifted with the ability to adapt a word. Perhaps, it is not the best word, or the most intelligent or socially acceptable word but we've taken this word and molded it and crafted it into something we have branded into our own.

Perhaps it sounds crazy, but when I hear the word fuck, I don't become insulted or immediately believe the person who used it uneducated, I think about my home, my family, my neighborhood, my garage. I remember a time when most of the people I love and respect where in the same room, at the same time just shooting the breeze and hanging out. Some things are just a trigger for people, and that happens to be one for me.

I hate to think that with my overpriced education working on overdrive most of the time, the most important thing I think about at the end of the day is to dissect the word fuck, and it's context among my neighborhood extended family. Nevertheless, overpriced education aside, it all comes down to the most important thing in my life; my neighborhood. It's where I learned to interact with people, how to talk, to walk, how to hold myself when I walk into a room. When I look back on my life, I won't think about the degrees on the wall, or the all the money and time I invested putting them there. I'll remember hanging around in the garage with the guys learning how to dissect the word fuck, and many uses I could put it to that would make my mother, and her kitchen ladies cringe at the thought of me saying. At the end of the day, I'll still be the only girl allowed in the garage because of the time I invested listening and learning to adapt in any situation. Going home triggers so many things for me; memories, school, happiness, unhappiness, tragedy and hope. On the plane ride when I return home I won't think about the things I should have done, or the regrets I have or of my long dead friends and family, I'll think about how when I was young I learned how to change the piston rings in a lawn mower engine, and how the word fuck taught me to adapt.

* * *

"Grace! Gracie!" The first voice I heard when I stepped off the plane and into the airport was the one friend I had left from high school. "Sweetie!" Elizabeth Anne, Liz, shouted again waving at me.

"Liz, this is tweed. The entire city can hear you, so please. Let's keep the airport out of our business." I said calmly from where I stood, trying to see which way was to baggage claim.

"I'm just excited to see you," she told me sullenly not happy about my chastising.

"I know, I know. I'm happy to see you, too." I say walking up to her and wrapping her in a hug.

"I never see you, you live so far. I know I'm a little loud but… isn't my goofy personality supposed to be endearing or something?" She asked hugging me back.

"Only to your husband, I believe. Speaking of whom, where are you hiding our dear Justin?" I ask letting go.

"Oh, he's trying to see if he can guess which luggage is yours. It shouldn't be too hard. There were literally five people on your flight."

I laugh at Liz lightly, as we intertwine our arms and she leads me to baggage claim. Liz was genuinely my best friend forever. Even though I lived in Detroit, and she here in New Haven we pick up right where we left off every time we see each other. She's the person I call if I have an off day, or a particularly great day, she's the first person I jump on a plane to see during the holidays and I like to think I'm that person for her. That some day I'll be godparent to her children and she'll be that of mine.

Her husband, Justin, is a good man, with a good job, who bought her a house in a good neighborhood. He's average, and I still think Liz could have done better but he loves her, and she loves him so I guess it doesn't get much better than that.

"Justin wants to set up with a man from his office. His name is Matthew; he's a pay grade above Justin. They play basketball together, or baseball or something ball. I don't know. He's nice: I met him. If I know Just he won't be able to wait until tomorrow or anything to bring it up so I'm warning you now if you want to dodge so you don't have to think something up on the fly." Liz said in a hurry.

One thing about Liz is she can talk like no one else; she has a serious gift for gab, that girl. Luckily for me I had an extreme amount of practice deciphering what it is she's trying to say when she's in a rush and that is why, after finished her little Matthew spiel, my first thought was of Robert Mercer.

Bobby was nothing if not ruggedly handsome. He had a strong jaw, and kind brown eyes that held a wicked streak. Bobby had these strong hands, and just looking at them made me feel safer. I shouldn't have thought of him though. He was a patient. It wasn't like he and I weren't flirting with that line with every visit but who I am to say that he isn't like that with every women he talks to? Although, he never talks about women other than Sophie or Cam, maybe he's just being polite- never shit where you eat, isn't that what they say?

"I'll pass on that, Liz. Maybe you can beat him to asking me?" Why did I say that? I should have agreed to meet him. It's not like I'm seeing anyone else, and Robert Mercer should be on the very, very, top of the list of people I'm not seeing.

"Alright, but if you want me to beat him to asking you… I can't be subtle about it." She tells me seriously, and I almost laugh out loud. Liz is a lot of things, but subtle? Not on the list of Liz.

"You just do what you have to do." As soon as the words flew out of my mouth I knew I would grow to regret.

"Hey, Baby." Liz chirps. "Look who I found? Oh, by the way… the whole Matt set up is a no go. Gracie isn't interested."

"Hey, Justin. It's good to see you." I say slightly embarrassed. "I'm sure your friend is nice, but um, big time difference to think about." I finished lamely.

"No worries," Justin said lightly. "Is that one yours?" He asked pointing at my cream suitcase, the only one left rolling on the claim.

"Good guess," I say making a move to grab my bag. "I'm shocked you could pick it out from the others." I say jokingly.

"Must be some kind of gift," Justin agrees, lugging one arm over Liz's shoulder and then swooping one over mine. "Ladies," He began, "Let's prepare for a night at Casa De Coppola.

* * *

_Bobby_

"Bobby are you with me?" Jerry asked waving a hand in front of his elder brothers face.

"Jerry, get that hand out of my face before you lose it." Bobby said hitting Jerry's hand away.

"I asked if you wanted a beer, maybe five times now. What's got you thinking?" Jerry asked walking to the kitchen, and then reappearing with two beers in his hands.

"Nothing, man. Been thinking about getting my skates out and getting in a pick up game. You in?" Bobby asked, not taking the beer offered to him.

"We ain't kids anymore, Bobby. I go down, it takes more than a ice pack to get me up the next day." Jerry told Bobby sipping at his beer.

"I shoulda realized I was talking to my little sister. I'll give Angel a call and see if he wants to get a game going with me. You should stay in and wash your hair or something."

"No need for name calling man, I guess I should just be happy you're back with the living." Jerry sighed standing up. "I'll go grab out skates from the attic."

Bobby thoughts drifted back to Grace. She would ask him that, _are you going to walk among the living today, Bobby? _She said he spent too much time thinking about Jack, or worrying about where Jack was. He would always react the same; Jack wasn't anywhere. Jack was dead. Grace would insist, he was worried about Jack's well being and some day he would realize Grace was right.

Bobby was worried about Jack. He worried about Jack from the moment he met him, why should that change simply because Jack was dead? Wasn't his immortal soul still around to worry about? Bobby was worried about Jack's chances of getting to Heaven. Of all the things Bobby coerced his brother to do over the years not one thing would have landed him a spot among Saint Peter's accepted souls.

Bobby realized this was one of those things Grace would insist on being told. _She liked that kind of personal revelation shit_ Bobby thought as he grabbed for the phone. Suddenly he remembered that she was in Connecticut, with her sister. If he called would she answer? If she didn't was it because she didn't care, or because she simply missed the call? He placed the phone down and decided he wasn't ready to hear the answer to those particular questions. He could just tell her in person, on Tuesday when they met for his next appointment.

Before he heard Jerry stomp down the stairs with their hockey gear he allowed himself a though _I spend so much time thinking of her… does she spend any time thinking of me?_


	5. Chapter 5

_Okay, so I actually got a review saying that Grace and Bobby didn't know each other well enough to have these kinds of feelings... I just wanted to explain myself- they don't really like each other. Grace is smart and pretty and Bobby is an attractive and challenging. It's kind of like an attraction to the mystery of each other, just crushes. _

_Anyway, this is a chapter just about Grace and her family. She and Bobby will resume their sessions in the next chapter._

_Thanks!_

_The After Math of Crime and Consequences_

My mother is, at best, irritating. At worst I might say she was a body's worth of wasted atoms but I would never be so bold, and speak in such a derogatory manner about my own mother. Okay, so I do talk about her that way, and yes, I will continue to talk about her like that. Never to her face though, that's in poor taste and I am nothing if not tactful. Okay... now that is laughable. I'm about as tactful as a cow being born in a tree is a bird; I can't say I'm a fanatic about it.

"Grace, could you, maybe, stand up straighter. Abby looks like an amazon in comparison to you, especially when you slouch." My mother demanded.

I arch my shoulders back and try to look taller. I do not slouch. I have wonderful posture. "Mother, Abby's about five inches taller than me to begin with. I'm not slouching; I'm short."

My mother frowned, "Perhaps you should have worn taller heels, isn't a women's nature to want to appear taller?"

I frowned back at her "_Perhaps_ you should have let Abigail wear ballet flats like she wanted instead of insisting she wear nine inch heels so Roger doesn't look too tall. Also, I am wearing tall heels." I took a breath and continued before she thought of anything else to add. "Now, for the love of Christ snap the picture so Abby can take her face out of that contorted position and put it back to it's natural one, please."

My mother snapped the picture, her frown firmly planted and not giving any indication that it will be removed any time soon. "Could you please leave your unwanted sarcastic comments to yourself, or better yet at home while we're at the engagement party, please. I would hate for you to upset Abby and Roger's guest."

"My friends think Grace is hysterical. Don't worry about it, Mom." Abby raised a hand to her temple, and sighed softly "Now, I would like to leave. Mom, you and Daddy are welcome to drive with Roger and myself or you can take your own car."

I could hear the gears in my mothers head turning. She was attempting to figure out a way to have me drive with her to Abby's party. Not-uh. No way. Like a sign from God himself Liz and Justin beep from the drive way. "Well, Liz and Justin are my ride. Hey Abs, you want to race and see who gets there first?"

My mother look disappointed, and Abby looked bored "Are you regressing or something, Grace?" Abby asked.

"Nah, I'm just glad to be around Liz and Justin again, I love spending time with all you guys." So, I lied about that last part, Bobby and I talked about that. Lying to protect people, to keep things on an even playing field. "Anyway, shouldn't I be worried about regression and you worried about which green crayon Child A stuck up his nose?"

"I am so beating your sorry ass there." Abby said grabbing her purse, accepting the childish challenge. "You ready to go, Rog?" She shouted into the kitchen "Sorry, Mom" She says apologizing for the yelling.

"Don't swear, dear" My mother tells Abby distractedly pulling at Richard's tie.

"I'll see you there!" I shout as softly as possible and attempt to slip out the door before it's truly noted that I'm gone.

"Oh God." I say sliding into the back of Justin's Jeep Grand Cherokee. "I feel like we're back in High School. Have you even washed this thing since 1988?"

"For the last time, Gracie, I bought this in '02. It wasn't even _made_ in 1988." Justin told me in a tired voice, I think we may have had this particular conversation before.

"Question still stands, Justin." I mumble as he pulls away. "So, I just want to state that operation piss off my Mother is going extremely well. My mere height set her off this morning." I smiled lightly "God! I feel like we're in high school."

Liz laughed "You were never in this good a mood when we we're in High School, Gracie." She turns around in her seat to face me "What's got you smiling?"

"Maybe it's just good to be home."

"Grace, you hate being home. I had to forcibly purchase you're ticket for you." Liz give me a lopsided grin "Gracie... do you have a crush on someone? Is that why you don't want to meet with Matthew?"

"No, I don't. Not a crush." I sigh. "Look, here's how I see the Matthew thing... what if I get together with this guy, right? We hit it off, and we start to really care about each other. I mean that sounds greats but, up sooner or later the travel schedule and the red eye flights are going to get old for one of us."

"Why does it have to be like that, why can't you just come home?" Liz asked in a sad voice. She missed me when I was away. We were best friends since the second grade. I missed her, too.

"Liz, I can't breath in Connecticut, you know that. If Matthew and I got together, hit it off, did the long distance thing... what if he didn't want to come to Detroit? What if he hated Michigan, or my practice, or my apartment? I'm not moving. You know that, I won't come back here. I bet he wouldn't move. I just set myself up for heart break."

"Oh, Gracie! Liz shouted, shifting her weighed in her seat of she could lean through the driving and passenger seat, grab around my neck and pull me in for the most awkward hug of my life. "What he loves you, what if you guys fall into a fairy tale love?"

"Now I fee like I'm in high school!" Justin declares. "Liz, if Grace doesn't want to meet Matthew, she doesn't have to. I thought they might have a good time but, you know how Grace is about Connecticut. Now, unhand her, turn around and put your seat belt back on."

"Okay... now I feel like your turning into father." Liz deadpanned as she turned around.

"Don't make me turn this car around."

* * *

I think I often say that Abby and I hate each other. That more or less isn't true. Hate is a strong word that doesn't truly describe the nature of our relationship. It's so much more complicated than hate, because hate is easy and what Abby and I have is hard.

We're the same age. Honestly, that's probably what made it the hardest. We should have so much in common, so much to talk about and bond over. It doesn't work like that though, because were so different, and grew up so differently. We lived in the same house for so long, but we had already grown at that point. We already had become who we we're going to be.

"To my sister, and my new brother! I love you both, wish you all the best in the world and of course, offer my services as a marriage counselor after Abby's neat freak habits take control of your life. To Roger and Abby! True love that will last!" I lift my glass and tilt it towards Abby, who is smiling at me and Roger who is barking out a laugh because he knows and accepts Abby's OCD style cleaning.

"Thanks Grace," Abby said extending her glass, and clinking it against mine.

Abby isn't all bad. We just have different styles of… absolutely every detail of our lives. She's a control freak, and neat as a pin, and a real girly girl, and I tend to swear as a second language, leave my laundry in the basket for days, and would rather fix a car engine than paint my nails. Not that I have anything against Abby's habits, I just... like mine better.

Sometimes, though, I think my mother might be right, and that scares me. What if my crazed marriage obsessed mother is right? That I'll never find a husband, or a boyfriend at my age if I continue to act the way I do. Perhaps I _should _act more like Abby. I mean, look at how well it worked out for her. She's in love. Clearly it's a head over heels, fairy tale, forever kind of love. The way Roger looks at her baffles me. It's such a deep adoration.

I'm kind of jealous, truthfully. That Abby can have it all. Happy parents, a good job, a true love. One and a half out of three ain't bad, right? Dear god, I need a drink.

The walk to the bar seemed a long one, probably from the second I got up off my chair until the second I slinked behind the wall separating the dining room and the bar I could feel my mothers eyes on the back of my neck. Did she think I was so childish that I would get drunk and ruin Abby's party? Don't temp me, Mother.

"Hello, Grace!" I heard my mothers friend, Lucile call from my left.

"Auntie Lu!" I exclaim trying to sound as sincere as possible. "How've you been?" I ask swooping over to her, and placing an expected kiss on her cheek.

"Oh dear, you know. I've just retired! I have so much time to myself, I feel like I'm making buttons!" She gave an airy laugh, and I chuckled along with her. "How's Detroit, dear?" She asked with a serious tone.

"Wonderful! I love it out there. My practice is doing well, and I'm very happy!"

"Oh, dear that's so good to hear. Now, I see you were headed to the bar, you go get yourself that drink!" She smiled and patted my hand, then leaned in and said "I hope you're the next young women I see walking down the alise!"

I choke back a snide comment,and calmly make my way back to the bar, "Hi, an extra dry martini- and skip the olive please, thanks." The bartender nods and flashes me a smile. "My sister is the bride," I say smiling at him "I wonder who's under more stress, her or my mother?"

"Your sister has four red wines," He tells me, shaking my drink.

"Abby wins." I say softly "Hey, if my mother asks I asked for a naked cranberry juice in a fancy cup- okay?" I say as he puts my drink on the bar in front of me. "I'm so not giving her the satisfaction of knowing that she has driven me to drink, yeah?" I ask, and he nods.

I take a seat a few seats to the bartenders left and sip my martini. I watch the room, trying not to be obvious. I'm a physiologist, people watching is part of my job.

My sister is in a deep conversation with her brides mates, Victoria and Emily, and Roger looks bored by their mere presence. Can't say that I blame him, Victoria is a particularly shallow girl always talking of celebrities and gossip and hair. While I will say, Emily isn't too bad to speak with I can't help but have the words _backstabber_ flash through my mind in a flashing neon purple. She's tells everyones business to who ever will listen and then denies it. However, they are Abby's best friends, and it's her party and her day so I'll keep my comments to myself because God knows I haven't before.

Roger catches me staring at the group, and I see him excuse himself, and begin to make his way over to me. "Hey future sister," he says with a smile. "Driven you to drink, too?" he asks.

"Oh, Brother dear. You know I don't touch the stuff." I laugh a little. "Listen, I'll let you in a secret. If you don't have a drink every once in a while to cut the pain staking insanity of these people then you'll die."

"Been here ten years, Grace. I'm a champion at the game of how many glass

of Scotch can I drink before Maria starts to make sense." He tells me laughing.

"Actually," A voice says from behind "I'm the champion at that game." I turn to see Richard, Scotch Neat in hand smiling lightly.

"No way, I've known her longest. Plus think of all the years I couldn't drink and still had to deal with her. That's like double the pain." I say as seriously as possible, until I notice that my Mother, Maria, is sneaking up on us.

"Roger, I think Abby was just about thank the guests. You should probably be there with her," she tells him in a commanding tone. "Richard, I need to speak to Grace for a moment, would you excuse us?" She asks smiling at him.

Richard looks at me pointedly, and takes a sip of his Scotch. "I'll see you back at the table," he says placing his empty glass on the bar.

"Grace," She begins "I cannot believe that you would embarrass us in such a way. Sitting at the bar!" She says exasperated "Women do not _sit_ at a _bar_ and drink. It's in poor taste."

"Oh mother, let's not be dramatic. We're in public, I know how you hate to make a spectacle." I sigh and wait for her to continue.

"Grace, do not do this. People are talking about my single, out of town daughter who is sitting at the bar. Do not ruin Abby's day."

"Okay, there we go. You said it. I'm making this about me by having a _cranberry juice_ at the bar. Now, why don't we go and listen to Abby's thank you and then I can disappoint you further by leaving early. Doesn't that sound fun?" I give her a small smirk that would make my teenage self proud.

"Now who's being dramatic?" She asks and begins to tap her foot.

"I just wanted to match you, Mother." I says, and she turns and walks back to her table.

"White cranberry juice," the bartender says placing a glass in front of me.

I smile appreciatively and take a sip. "Oh, if this way any other family event you and I would have become fast friends." I say, then drain the glass and place it on the bar. "Okay, consider me cut off." I tell him, then make an about face back to my table.

I barely sit down at the table before Liz explodes. "Your mother insulted my hair color, and my dress but when she left I said thank you. I tell you, if demeaning people was an art, she would be an artist."

"She does have a gift," I say nodding, then turn to Abby's table just in time to see my mother stand, " I shouldn't have told him to cut me off."

"Aren't you always telling your patients they don't need the drink?" Justin asked. "What does that say about your professional skills if you can't take your own advice?" He teased.

"Oh shut up, I'm plenty professional... in my office. I promise." I laugh and then grimace as I hear my mother clink her glass. "Let's just try to get through this speech." I said rubbing my temples.

"Oh you know what they say, what doesn't kill you... only makes Maria try harder." Liz laughed softly taking a sip of her wine. "Are we still going to make a trip to your Papa's?" She asked softly under my mothers speech.

"Yeah, I have to leave tomorrow morning and I can't be here without saying good bye. Plus, you know my Grams made some kicking pasta."

"Better than this hard, crusty stuff anyway." Justin said picking up his fork and poking at his food. "Disgusting display, really. I can't believe your mother would even consider this to be real Italian food."

"Justin?" Liz asks, and he looks to her "Shut up."


End file.
